The Warlord's Daughter
by songsora
Summary: Her father warned her of the devils who wandered in the belly of the Pit - only, she never thought she would have to befriend one of them. Bane/Melisande.
1. for love of a wanderer

"Do not be afraid; our fate  
Cannot be taken from us; it is a gift."  
― Dante Alighieri, _Inferno_

* * *

_prologue._

* * *

Once, I had everything.

It was a small price to pay for the love of a wanderer.

.

.

.

I was young when he came to us. Young and bright and a promising warrior, taught by the hand of my own father. Though I had the skill of a man twice my age, I did not have his wisdom – as soon as I laid eyes on the beautiful, pale-skinned wanderer, I fell in love with him. At least, I swore to myself that it was love.

He was a traveler from a distant land, without a home, without a past, but my father could guess that his pale loveliness was a mark of European blood. It was all I had of him – the color of his skin, like the petals of a lily. Smooth and soft and ageless. Never, in all my short life, had I seen someone like him. I didn't dare tell my father, who saw love as the one thing that could devastate the promise of even the greatest warrior. He detested even the idea of love. I was born of one of his concubines who had died mysteriously, and shortly, after my birth. No, this was a secret I knew I must bear silently.

And so I carried it with me, hidden in the depths of a heart that ached so strongly for the pale-skinned warrior. My father liked him so much that eventually he took him under his wing, trained him as he trained me. When no one was around to search for me, I would steal through the towering marble columns which lined the training square, silent as a ghost. He moved like silk in the wind, so quick and agile on his feet. It was apparent, even to my father, that he'd had training before. The way he dodged every deadly blow could have been the result of fair reflexes, sure – but the deftness with which he held his blade. It was not merely the deadness of a great weight in his hands, but an extension of his arm. Such effortless grace with steel was not self-learned.

It was with a terrible yearning in my heart that I watched him train with my father. And before too long, the hunger became too much, my secret love too intensely felt to bear alone. I came to him in the night, while he wandered the gardens, jasmine perfume tangled in my hair and rose water on my skin. I scaled the outer walls, watching his shadow move like fluid grace from behind a pomegranate tree. The way his skin glowed beneath the moonlight made my heart thrill. I had to know his name.

_Do you always walk alone, nomad?_

Even now, I remember the way he turned, and the way his voice stole through the gloom like a rush of quicksilver.

_It is the only way I know, princess._

_You know of me?_

_How could I not? You are so often spoken of by your good father._

_Strange, he never speaks of you._

_Perhaps I am a secret, one that should not be shared._

He had paused, his shadow still. _Come into the light so I may see you._

A warm, pooling heat had crawled through me then, burning like fire. I recognized the feeling, the same sensation I felt when I would unsheathe my father's prized scimitar in the training ring. Anticipation. The thrill of knowing what is about to come.

I step into the light. It is the first time he has ever seen me. We have been separated, kept apart, as I have always been when father invites strange men into his house. But I am a child no more – he cannot hide me as he once did.

_They did your loveliness no justice._

Almost breathless with exhilaration, I'd stood before him with my father's pride and our eyes locked. His were the color of sea stones, pale and blue and glinting softly in the moonlight.

_Give me your name, nomad._

_I can only give you one. Henri._

And so it began. In the afterglow of the desert heat, when the moon would rise and the darkness shielded us, we'd meet in secret in the garden. The days were torture. Long and endless until at last, the sun would slip behind the horizon, and the madness of the thrill would set itself upon me. Jasmine flowers weaved through my hair. It was in the maze of the garden that I knew him first, and he took me beneath the jasmine vines with his head bowed beneath my chin, whispering softly to me in my native tongue. Only the stars knew our secret, and the kept it for us. No one else seemed to detect the nomad's escape from his chambers, when the sun had set and all the house retired. And no one, not even the most vigilant wet nurse, noticed the disappearance of the warlord's daughter

Even my own father did not know. In the blissful haze of his ignorance, he continued to train Henri in the ancient ways of the Moroccan warlords. And I – I held a secret of my own.

With the months passing so quickly, I watched in dread as my stomach swelled. My clothes soon began to fit too closely, and I searched desperately for ways to hide the child growing inside of me. It would be too late, come one evening in the dead of winter. My most vigilant nurse maid took my secret – and she delivered it into the hands of my father.

It all happened in the course of one night. A long spell of darkness that made me yearn for dawn. Even now, it is all a blur. I cannot remember how everything came to pass, with the sharpness of my memory beginning to fade altogether. Everything I can recall can be whittled down to one moment – my father dead, killed at the hands of my beloved. And as we absconded from the palace, my hand over my stomach as we rode hard through the desert sands, the General of my father's vast army followed close behind.

He was a ruthless soldier, carrying out the strategies of my father's invention with such meticulous violence and skill. Henri was not spared the mercilessness of the General's retribution, who had hunted us for days with a bloodthirst roiling in his veins. He desired vengeance for the man who had taught him everything, raised him up from the obscurity of his old life like a father. When they caught us, they dragged him away from me and tied him to the back of the General's horse. I knew where he would go. There was only one place that enemies of the state were sent. They would take him to the Pit.

I threw myself to my knees before my father's prized soldier, begging him with tears stinging my cheeks. _Please, my lord, it was not him! He did not kill my father. He is innocent of this crime._

Henri thrashed in his manacles as he heard my plea. _No, Melisande! _

The General had ignored him. _You are the conspirator?_

_Yes. I am the one who killed the warlord. _

With only a curt nod, the switch was made. They tied my wrists and ankles with their thickest twines. Henri cried out to me. So desperately, so bravely, he fought to escape the binds around his wrists. It was not enough. The General dealt a harsh blow to the back of his head and left Henri to die, alone, in the sand.

It was silent as they tied me to the back of one soldier's horse. Not even the echoes of my beloved's voice remained.

I wept into my shawl as I walked behind, stumbling through the ankle-deep sand.

Once, I glanced over my shoulder at his silent figure. I could only bear one last look. And as we slipped further and further away, disappearing into the horizon, I knew I would never see Henri again.

* * *

author's note: for all those who don't know, melisande was the name of talia al ghul's mother who first appeared in _batman: son of the demon_. since she didn't have a name in the movie, i decided to use the only name i have.

disclaimer - i own none of these characters. they belong to DC.


	2. here, in the pit

"The devil is not as black as he is painted."  
― Dante Alighieri, _The Divine Comedy_

* * *

_chapter one._

* * *

They do not take your knives, your daggers from you when they throw you into the Pit.

That is how I know that it's not a prison at all, but a place to die.

I have heard stories of the Pit. My father called it the Belly of Hell, where they keep the most dangerous of criminals, the kind of men who would run you through for three pomegranate seeds in your hand. It is a warning, described so often as a place of legend that many have begun to doubt its existence altogether. I had believed my father when he told me, of that chasm that reached deep into the ground, so vast that you could not see the bottom. Everything my father said was truth. I only hoped I'd never have to look upon the place myself.

A pair of tall, muscular guards lead me down a corridor, carved from stone and sand. The smell is almost overwhelming, blood and sweat and rot gathering in my head like a putrid gray cloud. Even the memories of my garden, its fragrances of jasmine leaves and orange blossoms, couldn't hope to dull the odor of the Pit as it wafted through the corridor on the tail of a hot, sultry breeze. The guards on either side of me, gripping my wrists with hands of iron, were dark and faceless. When I was a child, my father told me the wardens of the Pit had been demons, servants of _Shayṭān_. Perhaps their true form had been lost in the haze of gossip and hearsay. For so long, the stories of the Pit have been passed from mouth to ear carelessly, all intentions of telling the truth of this place forgotten. These towering figures are nothing like the supernatural beings I 'd heard of in stories. They offer no warmth of human comfort, their cold, hard stares locked on the path before them…but demons, they are not.

Trapped in the prison of my own thoughts, my pace begins to slow.

The one on my right notices first, yanking me violently forward as he snarls maliciously above my head. _Move faster, whore._

I am not a princess any longer. The privileges of my old life mean nothing here, and I know better than to fight for something that no longer exists. It would be a waste of strength, strength I do not have at my disposal.

We reach the end of the long corridor. The sound is what reaches me first – a deafening roar comprised of the voices of thousands of men. They are chanting something, over and over until the words are engraved into my brain.

_Deshi deshi basara basara._

"What is it?" I ask, my own voice thin, weak against the power of the mantra. "What is going on?"

One of the guards takes my chin roughly into his callused hand. "Look there, princess. You see that man?

There, scaling the edge of a shelf protruding from the wall, a man begins to climb. All the way up, there are dips in the earth, grooves that human hands could so easily fit into. I feel something stir in the pit of my stomach, apart from the hunger and the weakness of my body. It is not long before I recognize it - _hope_.

"He will escape this place."

"You are wrong," laughs the guard as he collects my arms into his unyielding grasp. I am lifted off my feet for a shade of an instant. Before I even know what is happening, I am thrown into the air – landing on my back at the base of a staircase. I can feel the wounds open, seams of newly healed skin ripping like parchment. Above the rumble of the chant, I can hear myself scream as the pain rages through my entire body like a hot desert storm. Blindness takes me. I begin to slip, so slowly, into a daze.

The guard's voice finds me before I fall. "You see, princess, there is no escaping the Pit."

"The fool will fall –as all of them do."

.

.

.

For days, I have walked the vastness of the desert. Every step was a struggle, every slip of my foot a beating earned. Great pleasure had been taken in watching me squirm beneath the lash as each barb peeled flesh from bone. Without fail, without mercy, the General administered my beatings. No spectacle had been made of my penalty. Every time I showed signs of slowing down, of letting my feet drag across the burning sand, he would simply leap off his horse and brandish the whip with a bloodthirsty gleam in his eye. The others remained on their horses, watching with little interest as I bent and bled beneath the leather-bound cat o' nine tails.

Obediently, I'd fall to my knees to take the shame of a slave's punishment. As hard as I tried, I could find no good reason to blame or hate the General. The respect he'd had for my father was but a mask, expertly molded to keep the reverent love he had for the warlord behind a scarred, unchanging countenance. I had felt it, the depth of it, in the intensity of his beatings – but never had he confessed such feelings aloud.

I had no choice but to submit. He had taken my _scimitar _from me, tossed the prized weapon into the sand. They even stripped the _babouches _from my feet, so that I would be forced to walk the burning ground on bare heels. I suffered the pang of that loss more cruelly than the others. The slippers had once belonged to my mother before she died. I was allowed, by permission of my father, to keep them and they were all I had of her – no memories, no pictures, not even a bottle of perfume she once wore. Only her slippers – and now they were buried somewhere in a parched, lonely wasteland.

They never found the dagger hidden in the folds of my shawl.

And even now, it's all I have in the world.

Vulnerable to attacks by my infirmity, I have crawled into a corner, safe from view and from assault. Blood pools beneath me, still trickling in slow, quiet streams down my back. Most of it has since rusted over and hardened in this heat. It coats my hands, my shawl, the golden sand I sit upon. The stench of rot has set in. If I stay here long enough, all the blood in my veins will spill across the floor, and I will be but a pale corpse hidden in the shadows.

Moving is agony. But if I want to keep myself and my baby alive, I must do it. A prayer tangles with my breath as I prepare myself for the pain I know is coming. Fear floods me. Somewhere, a nagging doubt begins to form, and I almost can't bring myself to do it. But as I raise my eyes to the heavens, the pale blue of it spreading like a cool balm through my feverish brain, a calm overtakes it. I close my eyes and breathe in before leaning forward.

I arrange my legs slowly so that they are tucked underneath me, keeping my body upright with my hands until I am situated. Jagged thorns of pain stab through me. I bite my teeth against them, endeavoring not to make a sound. It is a long, hard ordeal. Once or twice, my vision swims and turns white, as if I will faint. But even as I struggle through the motions, I fix my eyes on the sunlight pouring down into the chasm. It is the only hope of heaven there is in such a deep, dark place like hell.

The smell of rot worsens as I peel off my makeshift dressing. It overpowers everything else – the sweat and blood that comprise the air of the Pit. My stomach turns violently, threatening to let loose what little I have eaten since the night of my father's death. _Lan astaslem. _I will not surrender.

There is a little water left from the ration I received this morning. More will come. I pour most of the cup over my scarlet-stained dressing and begin to scrub as hard as I can. The remnants I take and pour over my back, but the few drops that are left barely dampen the thick pus. My methods are but a sham – they keep hope alive in me. I will keep fighting, though there is no changing the fact that Death will come to take me from this Hell in a matter of days. Rot has set in my wounds. Blood still seeps from beneath the crust of decay. Slowly, I am waning, all strength leaving. I will fight for as long as I can – but my fate is inevitable.

Exhausted, I slump back into the gloom of my cell, away from the heat of the sun. The flesh of my back still throbs, though the pain has dulled some since I concealed it from the open air.

A crust of bread and a new cup of water are left at my door.

But I am too tired to rise and take them.

When I wake again, it is to the soft scratch of nails upon metal. I open my eyes just as a man enters my cell, his face hidden beneath a thick black beard. His fingers reach for my bread.

_"No!" _I cry out, my voice but a thin whisper. The man's wide black eyes snap toward me, cradling the bread to his chest. He is starving – I can see the hollowness of hunger burrowing into his sharp cheeks, his empty eyes. Desperation has brought him here, and we both know how useless it is to fight against death even as He comes for us. Still we fight. Still we will not surrender.

I pull myself to my feet, though the agony of movement slows me down. The starving prisoner takes off with my bread, holding it so close to his chest as if it is gold he has stolen from me. Still I pursue him.

"Stop! That is mine!"

Just as he disappears behind a corner, continuing down a long corridor lined with cells, I hear his body hit the ground with a sickening thud. I reach the corner only to find a giant leaning over him. He is a colossal figure. For a moment, terror rips through me, and in the blaze of fever I could swear that it is a descendant of 'Aad standing before me.

The colossus turns, opening his hand. Cradled in the palm is my crust of bread.

I have not been here long, but even in my short time of imprisonment I have heard so many dialects of Arabic spoken. Most often, it is Moroccan I hear filtering through the babble. Backing away slowly, so as not to spook the giant, I cannot help but imagine what dialect he would speak – if he could talk.

He turns his head. Blue eyes shimmer softly like water in the pale face. The mouth opens, as if to speak. "We do not often find women in the Pit. It is why we have no manners, and steal what is not ours."

I have backed myself into the bars of an empty cell. My mind is racing. Fear throbs like venom, weakening my legs. I never take my eyes off of his hulking form, even as I endeavor to calculate how much time it would take to reach for the scabbard tucked into my dressing.

Every step I take, he matches gracefully. "You are afraid of me?"

When I do not answer, he stops, puts down my crust of bread and backs away as if to prove he has no intentions of hurting me. As he moves, his pale eyes hold fast to mine. "I should not blame you. The rest of them, they call me sharmoota when they think I cannot hear. A fitting name, don't you agree?"

As I bend forward to snatch my bread from the ground, he takes a step forward. I reach for the dagger hidden underneath the folds of my tattered, bloodstained shawl. His eyes darken, almost black in the gloom, and as he retreats his lips curl open, baring all of his teeth – like an animal.

"Come no closer or I will gut you."

A shade of hurt falls over the sea stone color. It is so subtle, so soft a descent, that if it weren't for the fact that our eyes were locked I would not have seen it.

His entire body coils. I can see the hardness of its poise, curling in on itself as if readying to strike. "You are wise not to trust."

"Then why did you help me?"

A cruel smile unfurls like wings over the fleshy lips. There is an edge of darkness in the way he watches me, unblinking, unmoving – and suddenly I believe in the devils of Shayṭān, the ones my father told me about in the legends of the Pit. "Why indeed?"

New blood seeps down my back, mingling with the sweat. I can feel it as it drops to the ground, hot and thick and wet.

He, too, discerns my plight. "You will not survive another day if you do not seek help. Every hour you allow your wounds to fester is an hour lost."

"I can take care of myself, _shaytaan_," I hiss at him, baring my own teeth. "I need no monsters of the dark to lead me astray."

An almost human shade of sorrow filters into his face. "I see you have adopted your own name for the monster of the Pit," he replies. "Indeed, we will be friends yet."

"I will befriend no one," I tell him. "If I must die, then so be it. I take care of myself. I need no one."

"That is where you are wrong, princess."

He disappears into the darkness, quick like the falling of a shadow.

"Without me, you will fall."

* * *

author's note: i just had to get this one out too. hopefully you guys are enjoying this...thanks for the three of you who alerted this! :)

disclaimer - i own none of these characters. they belong to DC.


	3. deal with the devil

"O human race, born to fly upward, wherefore at a little wind dost thou so fall?"  
― Dante Alighieri, _The Divine Comedy_

* * *

_chapter two._

* * *

I listen in horror as the man is killed in the cell next to me for his bread.

For days, I have shrunk back into the shelter of darkness, sickened by the sounds that surround me like a suffocating cloth. The shadows are long and black, having never felt the sun nip playfully at their heels, but they are a balm against the burning fever that tangles with my skin. They hide me from the cruel eyes that watch, unblinking, from the cells close by. I fear most those hands, the ones wrapped around their cages, knowing they how easily they could dip through the bars, searching for limbs to latch onto and drag toward their hungry knives. But the darkness keeps me. In its cold succor, I feel no pain.

Even in the safety of my corner, I still suffer as silently as I can. In fits of delirium, I cry out for him – the father of the child I know will soon die with me, the man I saved from the fate I now keep for myself. _Henri, _his name dies in my throat, escaping in a breath of a dead whisper. The slinking murmur in my head is the one to remind me, the only reason I have left in a feverish daze.

_He is not coming, Melisande. _

_You will die here. _

_And he will die in the desert. _

_You should give in…_

_The sooner you do, the sooner you shall meet your lover in Heaven._

I know it is only the devils talking. How they flit to and fro above me, like birds of the deep. They try to lure me down with them, down into their snare. All of them have the same angel's faces, their beauty like heaven with sea stone eyes dancing like blue-gray embers. The way they move, closer to my reach, is as though from behind the veil of a dream. Only their black faces give them away, and the honey-sweet lies that slither from cruel grinning mouths. The _shaytaan _wanders through my bones, so soft a presence I can barely feel him in this heat.

_Oh, Melisande. What a fool you are._

_Saving a life no longer worth living. _

_And for what?_

_Your lover waits for you in Heaven._

_And here you are, clinging to Hell._

_What a fool you are!_

Never before have I heard such a cold, pitiless laugh. It rings in my ears, so resonant, so shrill, that I press the palms of my bloodstained hands against the sound. Blood smears across my temples, it clots within my knotted hair. I close my eyes, mouth moving silently in prayer, as I try to chase away that maddening voice.

_Allahuma thabetna._

The other prisoners must think me half-wild in my state. Perhaps I am. Perhaps, in the blaze of fever, I have lost all semblance of who I was, of the little girl who dashed through the gleaming marble columns of the palace like a gust of wind. Untamable, untouchable, like the wind itself. Blinking wearily into the gloom, I feel tears dig sharply into the corners of my eyes, the salt of them burying into my hot flesh. I am only a little girl in a prison now, desperately holding on to life, if only for the child growing in her swollen belly.

Still, the prison haunts me, as I glide in and out of restless sleep. Misery feeds upon the starving, the dying, the bleeding and the loss of hope. Now and then, I hear voices rise up from the quiet of the sleeping chasm, delivering prayers up to the sun to give to Allah. There is little vigor in these prayers. They are often the last words of a dying man…or more tragic, a man who loses his soul as he stabs another for his ration.

In the cell next to me, I begin to hear movement. Dull, sickening thuds travel through the earth and I can feel their movement, my ear flush against the ground. My stomach churns as I recognize the noise. The man who died this morning for his bread is being carved into pieces – and eaten as the starving man who killed him descends further into the hollows of madness.

The realization is too much. As loosened blood pools beneath my cheek, the sensation of falling grips me hard. The edges of the world begin to thin, blurring in the dim light. And then – there is nothing. I can remember nothing but falling further into a fever dream.

Just as the monster prophesied.

_Without me, you will fall._

.

.

.

Something moves in the fog.

I try to find my voice, somnolent still as it rouses from silence. "_Henri_."

It is a pathetic sound. Thin and watery, like the scratch of summer rain on my windowpane. I never return fully to the waking world. Formless shades move in the gray pall, haunting the darkest corners of my empty cell. And then, I hear it, shaped from the warmth nearby as it settles over my cooling skin.

"Here, my love."

I want to smile, let him see the joy that courses through me as I realize he is alive, he is well, and he is with me. "Henri, come closer…I wish to see your face."

His shape flickers in and out of focus. "No, you must rest," he whispers, his voice strange to me. "Sleep now, and you will see me again."

I can feel his hand close over mine, fingers curling over the shape of my palm. The warmth is all encompassing, as a sun grips the earth in her heat. I begin to let go again, fall back into the void.

But he is there. He is watching me.

_Dearest Melisande, sleep my love._

_For you are safe here in my arms._

.

.

.

I wake and remember the dream – the sweetness of it, though now it fades as I blink it away.

As a child, father once told me that dreams are but touches of dust, and they fall into your eyes as they are sprinkled on your lashes as you slumber. Only the children who obey when their fathers tell them it is time for bed and are gifted with pleasant dreams. As soon as they fall under, and the spell of sleep is tightly woven, elves of the night come into their chambers and sprinkle dream dust over their heads. The dust catches on the sharp lines of their lashes and slips quietly into their eyes. Bad children are given nightmares for their disobedience, tormented throughout the night as black dust looms over their heads like a dark cloud.

I am no child any longer, and such fairy tales are but a dream themselves. I keep them locked away, safe, so that I might not as carelessly blink them away as I do the sweetest reverie.

Everything is as I left it in my lonely little cage. The blood that seeped beneath my cheek has turned to rust, melting entirely into the sand. It must have been days since I last saw the light, now garish and cruel against my tired eyes. I look up into the patch of blue sky overhead and squint as the sun outstretches her hand to my cold, pale cheeks.

With great effort, I lift my body from the ground, only to realize at once that I have been placed onto a cot. A soiled wool blanket tumbles off the side as I sit up, feeling the wounds on my back begin to stretch painfully. Even as I move they do not break and bleed as they did before, and no longer do I detect the stench of rot on the air. Folding my arms behind my back, I brush my fingers over a fresh new dressing – the last time I changed mine had been days before I fell into stupor, long since losing its purity to the steady leak of pus and blood.

I drop my hands and look around, eyes wide, my senses alert. Someone has come into my cell, nursed me back to health, and disappeared. I can't help but wonder why they would do such a thing, whoever they may be. But the cell is empty; only I sit here now, wondering at the strangeness of my recovery.

A sudden stab of fear sinks into my heart as I realize the dagger must be gone, as I'd kept it concealed within the folds of my dressing. It had been a priceless trinket, and its usefulness only adds to its appeal. My hands search the length of the cot as I try to keep a false hope alive.

At the head of the structure, my faith is restored. My fingers curl over the length of the scabbard and I remove it from beneath the straw-filled pillow. A breath of relief escapes me, filling my lungs with familiar, though nonetheless putrid air. I clutch my dagger close to my chest; it is the only piece of my old life that I have left. I will not let it go so easily as long as I am alive to guard it.

With one last sweep of the room, I decide that no one is here but me. I glance into the neighboring cell, only to find a slack-mouthed corpse resting against the bars. Flies hover over ashy, green-tinted flesh. One lands on a wide open eye that stares out into nothing and I feel a shiver course through my spine.

"That would have been you," comes a rumbling sound, wafting out of the darkness behind me. "If I had not come to save you in time."

In an instant, I unsheathe my dagger, turning to face the presence in the room. I am met with the point of a knife at my throat, its long, crude edge dull and gray. It is only stone, whittled down to resemble the frame of a knife, but it is merely a peasant's weapon. Its wielder is resourceful, but can only ever be ignorant of the true purposes of an expertly wielded blade.

Pale blue eyes glow in the outer rim of my concentration. I fix my gaze intently on the knife pressed against my throat. I know better than to let my guard down; after all, knowing the face of my attacker would help me little if I were dead.

"You are a quick little viper, I will give you that."

A laugh runs through the words, quick like a vein of silver. I recognize it – the _shaytaan _who towers over all men, a beast carved from the curling black darkness of Hell itself.

"Strange that you should kill what you fought so hard to save."

"Oh _habibti_, I do not mean to kill you - "

He releases me from knife point, shoving me to the ground so that I am flat on my back. The blow is staggering, the force of it draining every last breath from my lungs. I am blinded in a cloud of dust that ascends in a stifling golden cloud – he is there, his crushing weight hovering over me like that of a poised incubus, when it clears.

"I mean to _strengthen_ you."

I gasp at the weight and kick hard, but uselessly, beneath him. "I don't need your help."

"Oh, but you _do_," he tells me, and I shy away from the heat of his breath on my face. He seizes my chin, forcing me to meet the gaze like white fire embedded in his pale face. "You see, it is a cruel little world we have made for ourselves, here in this present darkness. If you do not learn to play by our rules, then you can and _will_ lose the only thing you have left here."

"Oh, and what might that be?"

His gaze hardens. "Your _life_."

I snap my knee upward, hitting him in the groin. He sputters, all traces of air leaving his lungs as the pain tears through his body. It is the only chance I have to escape. I duck beneath his massive arm, untangling myself from the maze of his limbs, and point my own dagger at him. He coughs and curls in on himself, laughing in between dry, wheezing breaths.

"You _are_ a delight!" He titters, a high, rasping sound.

"I am warning you, _beast_," I seethe, pressing my heel against his throat. "I am trained in the art of swordplay by the most notorious warrior in all of Morocco. My father did not raise a simpering little fool."

The glitter in the monster's eyes brightens with a rising mirth. "Did he now?"

"If you do not play by _my _rules," I say to him, pressing my heel harder against his throat. His eyes begin to bulge. "Then you can and _will _lose your most precious possession."

"Oh? And what might my most precious possession be?"

"Your _honor - _"I spit on his face, a surge of power coursing through me as I watch it slide down his cheek. "Tell me, how will it suffer when you are castrated by a girl?"

"No, do tell _me_," he retorts. "Do you think I give a rat's ass about my honor?"

It is a threat, I can _feel_ it. I keep all fear from flooding my face, from betraying my weakness, and only stare harder into that lily white face that sneers at me with a devil's smile.

His countenance does not change, though there is a jagged edge that creeps into the corners of his mouth. "Learn from me, _ameera_," he says. "And you will never have to guard your bread again."

Unpinning his arm, he extends his right hand and waits for me to shake it. For a long time, I consider his offer, turning it over and over in my head. It is a fair bargain. There is no part in his contract that demands my trust, nor my life. I am merely learning from a new master, one that I may not trust, but who knows the secrets of this place and may, in time, impart them to me. After all, my father often told me it would be wise to leave myself open to the ways of the world, let them come to me in time, welcome them when they are presented to me. Here in the Pit, the ways of the world have been twisted from the mold of their true form, all wisdom and sophistication passed down from the ages wrung from its teachings. The barest kind of human nature thrives in the grottos of the underworld. I must learn to wear the mask of a demon, a soulless monster, but it is a treacherous line that I must tread – one slip and the darkness will swallow me whole.

I keep him pinned down, only to make certain this is not a trick. Slowly, and with greatest caution, I clasp his hand with mine. He squeezes it as hard as he can, baring his teeth as I cry out in pain.

There's a low, grisly noise climbing up into his throat, rumbling like far off thunder. A blood thirst roils in the sea stone color of his eyes as he removes the spit from his cheek with the back of his hand. He is a deadly beast, as beautiful as he is terrible. His poise is that of the waves on the shore, the power of it writhing just beneath the surface in a frothing rage. I have never seen anything that could be so lovely as heaven, and yet be so far removed from its gentle grace.

With an awful chill curling around my heart, I can only wonder if I have just made a bargain with _Shayṭān _himself.

I glance once more to the heavens above me and whisper to it so he cannot hear, _Allahuma Thabetna._

_God give me strength._

* * *

author's note: here's chapter two! i do hope that my characterization of bane isn't too off course...i see him as raw, animalistic, living off pure instinct before meeting talia (seeing as he was born in the Pit, and knew nothing of human interaction outside of the brutality and mercilessness of his fellow prisoners). so, naturally, i'd go with my gut on this. let me know what you think ! there's more to come. :)

disclaimer - i own none of these characters. they belong to DC.


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